


Body Drug

by Gearsmoke



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 05:47:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2681402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gearsmoke/pseuds/Gearsmoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A gratuitous psychological peek into the (theoretical) relationship between a singer and a drummer, with some panic and strife tossed in for funsies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One: High

1

  


This was the body drug. The one thing that gave some surcease to the aching empty place that he’d tried for years to fill with chemicals and alcohol and work, and Pickles arched as the rush flowed up and out of him, gasping, then screaming, thighs locking onto Nathan’s driving hips. The latter was grateful for the foot-thick stone walls of their bedrooms; Nathan enjoyed hearing the smaller man climax, a warbling cry that was as on-pitch as it was powerful, reminding Nathan that his friend and lover could sing beautifully when he wanted to.

  


Watching the wiry body writhe under him was also thrilling; the feeling, sound and scent all narrowed down to a single white-hot point… and then Nathan broke, snarling like a beast, then moaning with surprising softness as his machismo crumbled in the throes of bliss. As his strength gave out, the bigger man pushed himself onto his side, smoothly disengaging from the other’s slender, yet oddly strong limbs.

  


Pickles draped himself damply over Nathan’s arm and chest. They paused, looking into each other’s eyes, saying nothing. It was awkward, brief - but in the few moments they remained locked in that gaze, years reflected between them.

  


Nathan wasn’t gay, his ego demanded, reminded him after each tryst... At first, he’d had to reassure himself constantly. He loved women, and he was sweet and gentle with them, he made every groupie he bedded feel special, feel as if he cared about them. And he did, he transferred all the affection and concern he could never show for his bandmates onto them, and he felt loss when they walked out of his life, taking that small part of him with them. Nathan wasn’t gay. But this wasn’t about gender, or physical attraction, it didn’t matter what he was.

  


And even though he was certainly not new to men, on average Pickles preferred women as well. He was simply less inhibited, less afraid to experiment than most people. He’d been young and beautiful in a time when opportunities to try new things were beating down his door, and he’d reveled in discovering each one. And even though he was older now, discovering Nathan had been amazing. 

  


There was no romance in their relationship. They were not a couple, there would be no hand-holding or walks on the beach. There would be no discussion of this outside of their bedrooms. And when they were done here, they would shower, get dressed, and go back to life as usual. It was an agreement that they’d reached early, and they were happy with it.

  


They had also agreed to take a little more care with the women they brought home, neither of them wanted to bring an STD into the mix, or a spiteful girlfriend who might get suspicious and out them. They never talked about their female lovers when they were together; there would be no comparing, no jealousy.

  


The inevitable question did rear its head on occasion: What if they were caught? It was always there, an edge of danger that seemed exciting while they were together, but gnawed at both of them the rest of the time. Pickles was so good at acting cool, he’d hidden this kind of thing for so long, but Nathan was anxious, twitchy around the other guys. Luckily, the other guys were either oblivious or just too self-absorbed to care, and there had been no questions. And really, neither of them were willing to give up the incredible thing they had.

  


What it was, was something entirely different than any other relationship they’d had, separate from their lifelong understanding of what sex meant, what love was. Ultimately, what they had was this: _Fulfillment._

  


They had both known many wonderful nights in the arms of a lady fan. Any of a thousand lithe, supple female bodies, sweet-smelling and agile, wrapped around their own, coaxing them to a shared exclamation of joy... But there was always something missing, some place inside them that was never satisfied with these transient lovers. And although it had taken years, they’d finally figured it out.

  


Part of it was the knowledge of each other, the two men had been friends for so long that every fault, every bad habit and foul mood had already been laid open to the other. They accepted themselves in each other’s company, and felt such amazing relief at not having to impress or behave or hide anything. Everything was so natural, unforced, a shared honesty that was a salve to bruised souls.

  


Of course, then there was the sex. They hadn’t expected it, but it turned out that the combination of the older man’s experience and skill, and the younger man’s enthusiasm and prowess, resulted in some of the most amazingly mind-blowing sensations either of them had ever felt. It was different, raw and uninhibited, dirty and messy and forbidden, intoxicating, addictive. The body drug was in their systems, and it was a high unlike any other.

  


There were other, more personal reasons as well. For Pickles, it was security, and the feeling of being wanted. Nathan’s gentle strength, the heavy, warm arms holding him carefully, as if he were something precious. He craved that safety, the sense that as long as Nathan held him, nobody could hurt him. 

  


And for Nathan, it was having someone need him, not his fame or his money, but _him_ , and knowing it without any doubt. He felt necessary at a personal level, being the rock to which his friend could cling when his confidence failed. He basked in the trust and affection of the older man for whom he had such massive respect.

  


Nathan rolled his head back, breaking the glance. Quietly, he continued to think, in the clarity only post-coital afterglow really brought to him. He may have been the frontman, the obvious leader of the band, but Pickles was the one who really got things _done_. Nathan knew it was his drummer who really kept the band together, who sorted out arguments and helped him make the big decisions. In contrast to his outward appearance of frailty and stupidity, Pickles was so capable when he wanted to be, and hidden under the haze of alcohol and drugs, there was a keen intelligence. He may not have been educated, but Pickles could learn with amazing speed and determination, and he was just _good_ at so many things. Nathan had to admit he was a little bit in awe of the guy, and had been for a long time.

  


The drummer let his eyes fall closed, and he lay his head on his friend’s damp chest, feeling the tickle of fine black hairs against his nose and eyelids. He floated in euphoric haze, enjoying the closeness, the solidity and warmth of the big man’s body. Pickles had struggled with his size all his life, he’d always had to be faster and smarter, better at everything, just to compete. He’d known pain and disappointment, felt the futility of human endeavor… and eventually it just got to be too much. He gave up, and set to work destroying his mind and body, he didn’t want them anymore. Except when he was here, breathing slowly and deeply, inhaling the scent coming off his lover’s skin, when, for a little while, life was so very bearable.

  


He’d always felt something for the big guy, who tried to be so gruff and brutal, who talked like he hated everyone and everything and took pleasure in destruction and pain. This was the façade, the bullshit he told interviewers. Sure, Nathan did like violence, and he could be pretty antisocial, but he had a decent heart. Pickles knew that somewhere deep, in a knotted-up and frightened way, Nathan cared. And he knew that it contributed to the big man’s awkwardness, the way he hesitated, always a little unsure… it was so terribly endearing.

  


  


2

  


Two months ago, Pickles had decided to kiss Nathan. It was impulsive, he was high, which was usual, and he hadn’t gotten laid in a while. He liked to keep up appearances, but he just wasn’t a young man anymore, and he often chose a quiet night alone over sex. Performing for the ladies was draining, and more and more often, unachievable. But he still wanted it, the touch, and the pleasure of another body. They were alone in the common room, and for some reason, Nathan had looked so good to him that night. He became obsessed with the contours of the larger man’s face, his prominent cheekbones, bent nose, and the exotic shape of his eyes. Nathan had noticed, but Pickles stared at people on a regular basis when he was high. Probably seeing salamanders crawling out of their eye sockets or something. He was surprised when the wiry drummer had crept up close to him, suddenly putting his arms over those broad shoulders and leaning in…

  


“Hey… HEY. Stop that! What the fuck?” Nathan edged back, discomfort read plainly on his face.

  


Pickles blinked, twitched, then collapsed into himself, curling his body into the sofa. “Oh… gahd, Nate, I’m sorry. I’m just… I’m really high.” He wasn’t lying, but he knew it wasn’t just the drugs. He’d had some quality pot and a little bit of E, and he had been feeling damn good, but his mind was clear. And even through the euphoria, the rejection hurt terribly.

  


Nathan stared at Pickles, a flush of embarrassment and frustration creeping into his face, hands curling instinctively into fists. He looked at the way his friend had shrunk back, he could see the disappointment and wanting in the redhead’s face. He’d known Pickles long enough to recognize that expression: guilt, need, and vulnerability. And he knew that the other man hadn’t told him the truth; Pickles wasn’t nearly high enough to explain what had happened, he had _wanted_ to kiss Nathan, and still did. As Nathan continued to stare numbly at the small man, who had suddenly become even smaller, huddled up in pain and now fear, he started to realize that he wanted to let Pickles kiss him, if only because it would make the other man feel better.

  


It was frightening when Nathan thought about how much he cared about Pickles, how difficult it was not to be able to do or say anything about it, because of that damned pact they had all made, because of his own ego. He had pushed Pickles away, tried to numb himself emotionally, convinced that he would inevitably be the one to find his friend’s body when the drummer finally overdosed or decided to kill himself. But it never worked, he still wanted to make Pickles happy, to comfort him, ease the pain he saw written in the lines etched at the corners of the older man’s eyes and mouth…

  


Nathan struggled internally, he hated seeing someone he really did care about feel like that, and he hated the way it affected him. He didn’t understand it; he didn’t know how to react to it. The conflicted feelings made him want to hit Pickles and hold him at the same time. Nathan was silent for a long time, dragging his eyes away and gazing at his hands, the chips in his nail polish were suddenly very important. He’d had a few drinks, but he was wishing he’d had a lot more, being drunk would really make this shit easier to deal with, instead his head buzzed with unsettling clarity.

  


This wasn’t how things were supposed to be. They were friends, good friends, and that was all. Emotions just fucked things up, made life harder, and Nathan wanted no part of them. Except he did kind of like how Pickles made him feel about himself, like he was smarter, better at things, because the other man never talked down to him, never treated him like the awkward, lumbering dummy most other people made him feel like.

  


He’d had his suspicions about the redhead for a while, Pickles had always been far too casual, too open about things that men usually didn’t tell each other. He obviously liked women, but he treated both genders the same way. And so what if the drummer was bisexual? It wasn’t any of Nathan’s business, this was the twenty-first century, and who was he to judge? The guy was still his friend, still the charming, clever, talented man he’d always known.

  


Nathan was only faintly aware of Pickles’ growing discomfort, and when it occurred to him, he started to worry that the little guy might start crying. He didn’t think he could handle that, so he made a decision. “You can kiss me, if you want.” 

  


When he looked back at Pickles, the other man’s demeanor had changed so much that he suddenly looked twenty years younger, nervous and full of hope. He had been so afraid that he had just destroyed the best friendship he’d known since he’d fallen from grace in Los Angeles. Possibly the best thing he’d ever had, he realized, and the redhead’s face flushed as he reached out again.

  


They hadn’t expected much to happen, but something instinctive kicked in, and the world blurred away when their mouths met. Time skipped ahead, and suddenly they had somehow wound up in Nathan’s bedroom, passionately groping at each other as if neither of them had felt a warm body in years...

  


3

  


Pickles managed to get himself out of bed first. On unsteady legs, he made it to the shower, climbing in and letting the cool water sluice over him. He washed the sticky mess from his stomach and thighs, and tried to work the sweat and grease out of his dreds. When he returned, wrapped in a huge ‘NE’ monogrammed towel, he could still smell the reek of drying spunk on the bed. But the sheets could be washed. And so could Nathan. Pickles nudged the big guy until he got a grumbling protest.

  


“C’mahn, Nate. Y’gotta get washed and dressed. We’ve gatta be at the studio in twenty minutes and you smell like fuck.”

  


Another grumble. This was a ritual, and Pickles was used to it. He’d nudge the burly singer a few more times, then he’d sigh exasperatedly and leave, and Nathan would get up and take care of himself. He’d show up at the studio ten minutes late and say he’d been reading or writing or something. There was comfort in knowing this.

  


After getting his clothes back on (and deciding against re-wearing last night’s funky underwear,) Pickles paused to listen to the door before he opened it, footsteps or voices carried well, and he hadn’t been caught coming out of Nathan’s room yet. The opposite wasn’t always true, but nobody ever questioned Nathan about it. People rarely questioned the brawny vocalist at all. Except Pickles, of course, he knew how to get away with it. There was no sound from the hallway, the door slid open, and the drummer headed for the main studio.

  


Nathan dragged himself lazily out of bed a few minutes after he heard the door slide shut, pausing to stretch and enjoy the cool prickle of air conditioning on his hot, damp skin. He could feel where bodily fluids had smeared and dried, which was unpleasant and fascinating at the same time. Pickles had been right, he stank, and a shower sounded good.

  


The compound was so large, Pickles thought, there were parts of it he’d never been, and frankly, he was afraid to explore, sure he’d get lost in the maze of rooms and corridors. Afraid of his own home… not that he ever really felt at home. This was a place of business, and it was filled with strangers, anonymous drones who obeyed without understanding, or even caring about him. It was depressing, he thought, no wonder he hated people; if these mindless sycophants and groupies were the only humans outside of the band he ever got to interact with anymore.

  


He could remember when people meant something, when lives had value. Now death, or at least the distant concept of death, surrounded him: the cessation of lives that never had human faces. Pickles had realized pretty quickly how destructive the band and its fans were. He wasn’t as oblivious as his bandmates, and his reaction was to drink until it didn’t matter anymore. Nathan, however, could never admit to himself that his actions made _real people_ suffer. The tattered remains of empathy, nearly completely torn from him, would still not let him grasp that truth. Death was Metal, it was glamorized and kept at a distance, and when he was forced to look, to really see it, Nathan felt sick.

  


But this was life, and it went on. The band rehearsed, they drank, they got rowdy and picked fights, won some and lost others. Days passed before Pickles looked up and saw Nathan looking back at him in a very specific way. The other boys were too self-involved to ever notice it, that moment’s glance, caught and returned, so full of promise.

  


4

  


Gently rubbing Nathan’s belly, Pickles said quietly, “I’d like ta try sahmthing.”

  


Hesitantly, “Like what?”

  


A thoughtful pause, deliberation, how to phrase this. “…I’d really like to tie you up.”

  


Nathan blinked, “Really? … I mean, that’s messed up. Really… pretty messed up.”

  


“It might be fun.” The red-haired man traced the tip of his tongue along the thick ridge of Nathan’s neck, then grinned. “I won’t try anythin’ ya wouldn’t let me.”

  


There was a sticking point in their relationship; Nathan would not let Pickles fuck him, he felt that it was ‘too gay’. But the older man was clever; and had slowly been breaking down Nathan’s resolve. He knew how to touch, how to use his nimble body and strong, agile hands to make his lover succumb to his suggestions. Maybe he should have felt a little bad about manipulating Nathan that way, but Lord help him, it was so good. He would never have hurt Nathan, never tried to do anything that would cause anything but pleasure for them both, but he wanted to break this barrier – and not simply for himself. Pickles wanted Nathan to understand what it felt like, just a little bit. He knew that he could never compare to how Nathan made him feel, not physically or emotionally. When Nathan took him, Pickles faded slightly into the glory of his lover’s body; his entire world became the continents of Nathan’s muscles, the smooth seas of his hair, the shining crescent moon of his sharp white teeth… And the surge of his beautiful, thick cock thrusting into the smaller man’s body, pushing waves of ecstasy before it.

  


The thought of that swirled in Pickles’ head, and he found himself getting hard over it. He grinned at Nathan, watching for another crack to form in the other man’s mental wall. They were silent for a while, and then Nathan spoke.

  


“What would you use? To tie me up? It’d have to be really strong, I’d probably just break ropes.”

  


“The bedsheets mebbe? Or belts. I have some good strong leather belts. Think ya could break those?”

  


“I don’t know. Maybe. How many belts?”

  


“As many as it takes, babe.”


	2. Part Two: Addiction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuing from the last chapter.

5

  


Nathan had forgotten all about having agreed to the idea when it resurfaced a week later. They had waited for Skwisgaar, Toki and Murderface to occupy themselves elsewhere in the compound, and then sneaked off via alternate routes to the building that housed their private quarters. They preferred Nathan’s room, the bed was bigger, and it was at the end of the building, so nobody would be passing that door on their way to another room.

  


Pickles arrived slightly later than Nathan expected, with about a dozen leather belts, mostly black, a few studded, draped over his arm. The drummer was grinning from ear to ear, and slightly red in the face. Nathan paled for a moment, even more so than usual, as he remembered the promise. Oh dear sweet Satan, they were going to do this. But it was short-lived shock, Nathan knew his friend would never, ever harm him, he trusted Pickles with his life… He could surely trust the man with his body.

  


They didn’t get into it right away, Pickles knew he had to get Nathan to relax first. He left the belts at the foot of the bed, and slid over to where his friend was sitting. Nathan was still fully dressed and feeling oddly naked as the smaller man stroked his hair and kissed his throat gently. He wasn’t used to feeling vulnerable. He was always the strong one, he was vicious, tough as nails, and immune to the feelings of others… But not to his own feelings, or the sensation of careful, callused fingers sending shivers through his body. Pickles moved behind him and started to push Nathan’s shirt up, sliding his palms over exposed skin to massage the burly man’s neck and shoulders. His small, strong hands kneading the tension out of those thick muscles. 

  


Nathan pulled his shirt off and cleared his throat, “You’ll stop, right? If I ask you to, you’ll stop.”

  


“Of caurse. D’ya wanna safeword?”

  


“If I want you to stop I’ll tell you to stop.”

  


“Awreet.” Pickles pressed his body against Nathan’s back, nuzzling into the thick, soft hair to nibble at an ear, which was horribly ticklish, and Nathan struggled not to squirm. Just as he was starting to really enjoy it, the warmth suddenly slid away, Pickles had moved back to pick up a couple of belts.

  


“Lay down.”

  


_Oh God…_ Nathan paused. But he did as his drummer had asked. For almost as long as he’d known the guy, he had always eventually done what Pickles had asked. In the end, it had always been for the best, and he knew, despite how nervous this made him, that this would be the same. He relaxed as much as he could as Pickles doubled up the belts and fastened them to the tall iron posts of Nathan’s bed. Four to an arm, the heaviest fastened to the bedposts, and another two to secure his wrists above his head. Then his legs – only two to fasten each ankle to the footposts, but they would suffice. Pickles pulled the blanket out from beneath them, and bunched it up under Nathan’s pillow to prop him up slightly. He wanted the big man to watch; that was the fun of it.

  


Nathan was quiet during all of this, but eventually he had a thought, “If I break these, I might hurt you.”

  


Pickles smirked, “I doubt it.” He didn’t clarify if he meant breaking the belts, or Nathan hurting him. Secretly he thought, ‘ _And I’ve been hurt before_.’ Physical pain meant so little, bruises healed, bones knit… the risk was worth it. It had always been worth it. He climbed up to straddle Nathan’s hips, and ran his hands over the firm muscles of the singer’s torso. “Okey, Nate’n, I want ya ta test out those belts fer me, lemme see how secure they are.”

  


“You’re really enjoying having control over me, aren’t you?” Nathan pulled against his restraints, then jerked his arms forward with a throaty grunt, straining the leather and metal, but everything held securely, and he could only move a few inches from his resting position.

  


“It’s nat about me bein’ in control, Nate, it’s about you _nat_ bein’.” Pickles grinned, already finding himself aroused by the situation.

  


“Oh.” Nathan was confused.

  


“Dood, think about it, awreet? I know ya hold beack when yer with me. But I’m usedta it, everyone holds beack with me, I get it, I bruise easy, what can I say?” Pickles stroked down Nathan’s belly, tracing the scar at the apex of his ribcage, and then trailing his fingers lower. “But you, yer so powerful, Nate’n… Can ya remember a time when ya _weren’t_ holdin’ beack? When ya weren’t afraid of hurtin’ someone if ya just let go?”

  


Nathan looked up at the leather straps holding him firmly, and he finally got it. “Oh.” This time it was said with realization. “Oh wow.” As the implications sunk in, a flush of colour began at the dark-haired man’s throat, spreading into his cheeks, and then darkening when he realized that Pickles was undoing his fly. So they were starting there. He already knew how amazingly talented Pickles’ mouth was, but everything still seemed so new to him, he still shivered in anticipation and wonder at the delicate, almost feminine way the other man teased him. 

  


He didn’t act womanish, Pickles was confident in his own masculinity, without needing to prove it to anyone, but there was something so beautifully androgynous about him. The slender slope of his shoulders, his long neck and round, youthful face, the softness of his belly and the roundness of his ass, the muscular firmness of his thighs, all made him so strangely appealing… And lately, Nathan had found himself noticing, finding himself more and more attracted when he watched the drummer at work. The flex of his wiry muscles, the way his dredlocks flew as he laid into the drums, how the sweat beaded and streaked his freckled skin. He knew it was going to be a problem, he shouldn’t look, someone would notice… but oh Lord, he couldn’t stop.

  


And now he stared unreservedly, eyes wide and hungry as Pickles coaxed him to full erection, breathing softly against the tautening skin, teasing him with the lightest touches of his lips and fingers. He was so damn good at this, and Nathan wondered how many times he’d done it before. That was simply a part of Pickles’ life that they had never talked about, but it really was his own business. In the present, however, Nathan was already starting to feel restrained, he was used to being in charge, of holding the smaller man and just taking him. This slow tease was frustrating him, torturing him. “Fuck, Pickles!” He groaned.

  


The drummer grinned, that’s what he wanted to hear. Maybe he _was_ enjoying being in control, just a little bit. He slid his tongue around the thick head of Nathan’s cock and took it into his mouth, eliciting a small, stifled gasp. Pickles pulled the other man’s jeans further down, and slid his hands up the pale, newly exposed inner thighs, massaging them firmly, then pressing both thumbs against the root of Nathan’s shaft and kneading just the right way, in perfect rhythm with the motion of his mouth.

  


Nathan had had some pretty damn good blowjobs in his life, and in the grand scheme of things, many of them had been more impressive than this. There were women he’d fucked who had incredible skills, refined to the point of being art. But even though they might have been more energetic, more precise, showier, this was just so much more powerful. Just because it wasn’t only his dick responding, it was in his entire body, it screamed from his blood and marrow, his brain and his heart. It made him ache, made his breath stutter and his mind reel. He would never say it, it was an unspoken understanding that they would _never_ say that word, but he knew what it was. Maybe it wasn’t romantic, maybe it was simply the ultimate expression of friendship which bound him to Pickles the way the leather belts bound him to the bed, but there it was.

  


He cursed himself for letting his mind wander, but these thoughts were probably the only thing that kept Nathan from just coming right there… or would have been, if Pickles had not abruptly pulled away, leaving his straining erection wet and colder than he liked. But the other man was merely preparing for what was next. The drummer removed his pants and underwear, kicking his shoes onto the floor as he leant to open the drawer of Nathan’s bedside table. A familiar clear bottle appeared, and Nathan moaned again as Pickles slid a palmful of lubricant over his aching organ, kneading as he coated the thick length.

  


“Feelin’ good, big guy?”

  


“Hnnhgh!” Nathan ground his teeth, eyes firmly shut. His hands were clenched so tightly that he could feel his nails pressing crescent bruises into his palms.

  


“That’ll do.” The drummer moved lithely, straddling Nathan’s hips. He leant forward, looking into his lover’s eyes as he made himself ready. 

  


In their positions, Nathan couldn’t see what the other man was doing to himself, his imagination was supplying vivid ideas, and he found he liked how deliriously filthy they were. He felt slick fingers grasp his cock and hold it steady until it met a familiar yielding warmth. Pickles held himself there, wiped his hand on the inside of his thigh and pressed both of his palms against his bandmate’s chest, still holding that smouldering gaze as he slowly lowered himself.

  


Nathan moaned, and the sound sent a shockwave through Pickles’ body. The drummer closed his eyes and straightened up, tilting his head back and biting his lip in pain and pleasure. Pickles was no size queen, but he loved how it felt to have that beautiful, big cock inside him. The way the initial pain transitioned into a cool, numbing tingle that started at the base of his spine and spread through his body, into his lips and fingertips, leaving them buzzing… And suddenly there was only pleasure, mounting in waves with the rhythm of their bodies.

  


Nathan felt compelled to test the belts again, straining and sweating, swearing throatily at how intense and agonizing it was to be ridden slow, and watching it happen. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight. Pickles had been on top like this before, but Nathan would have been gripping those slim hips, rolling his own up to meet the other’s downward thrusts. Now, tied as he was, he couldn’t get any leverage with his heels, he could only lie there. 

  


The tension built to its breaking point, and Nathan finally did what Pickles had wanted all along – he let go. He gave up that long held self-control and let loose with a deafening roar of frustration and desperation, thrashing until the leather straps creaked and warped against the metal bedposts. Pickles responded to the cry with a higher-pitched scream of his own, grinding down gratifyingly as a spasm of heat washed through him, “Ah, fuck yeah, Nate’n! Let it go… let it all go!” He picked up the pace, thighs flexing, sweat rising to glisten on his skin. He watched Nathan through lidded eyes, touching himself sensually as he rode the other man’s erection, thrusting down harder and faster until he was panting and flushed with the exertion of it. “Ah… Ah gahd, yes!”

  


Nathan drank in the sight of Pickles’ soft body and slender limbs arching and shivering as the drummer worked, fondling himself, moisture trickling down his back and thighs as he rose and slammed down, stroking his cock to the same beat. Like his breath, like the pound of Nathan’s heart. It was so fucking hot…

  


One of the belts snapped, unable to hold the bound man, but by this point Nathan had completely given in, he was hauling on those straps so hard that they were leaving red welts across his arms, and he could hear the protests of abused leather and fatigued metal. As the doomed belt gave with a loud crack, Nathan arched and cried out wordlessly, a long, low, throaty sound of complete release. His entire body taut and shaking like a freshly plucked guitar string; and when he peaked it was symphonic, a blinding surge that rang in his ears.

  


Pickles gasped as Nathan came inside him, feeling that hot rush and the body spasms racking the large man beneath him, thrilling to the sound of the other’s climax. Before Nathan had a chance to stop shuddering, Pickles followed suit, his voice tremulous and rich as he spilled out onto the other’s broad, heaving chest.

  


“Haaa… Ah, Nate!” His body clenched and trembled, gripping Nathan’s now-aching cock painfully for a few seconds before relaxing again, leaving Pickles drained and dazed, falling forward onto the singer’s sweaty and semen-slicked belly.

  


Nathan lay there, just as addled, breathing heavily, barely feeling the warm weight of the slender body sprawled on him. He was processing what had just happened. His arms hurt, and he was sure he could feel blood tricking down one wrist. His shoulders and neck were stiff, and he felt heavy and weak, like he couldn’t have moved if the Haus was on fire and infested with velociraptors. But above all of this, he felt amazing. Nathan could not remember ever feeling so thoroughly satisfied, so completely relaxed. It was as if he had released some of his long-held anxiety and anger with his orgasmic howl.

  


The moment was short-lived though, because suddenly Nathan became aware of a faint sound. Pickles registered it a moment later, and they both snapped to attention. Footsteps echoed outside their door, hastily retreating and unmistakable. Someone had been there, someone had been listening.

  


“Oh,” said Nathan, “Fuck.”


	3. Part Three: Withdrawal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive the formatting issues, I just figured out how it works.

 

6

Nathan waited impatiently as Pickles removed the belts, nearly knocking the smaller man off the bed in his rush to get up, lurching to the door and palming it open. The hallway was deserted, and he realized there was no way to know who had been there. It could have been anyone. The Haus was teeming with people, thousands of anonymous employees, and an individual could vanish amongst the nameless without a trace. Nathan stood there blankly, naked and rubbing at his bruised forearms. He looked back at Pickles, suddenly terrified by that realization. The band had always felt untouchable, cloistered in their own private world, an entire small country dedicated to their wellbeing. But Nathan had never thought about how easy it would be for someone to slip in amongst them, someone who could do them harm…

"Pickles, get up!"

"Fuck. Yeah, I… gimme a moment." The redheaded drummer rolled over and sat up, still dizzy. "Who was that?"

Nathan growled unhappily, letting the door close, "I don’t know! There’s nobody out there!"

"Oh gahd…" Pickles’ voice constricted, growing nasal with fear, "Oh gahd, Nate! Someone was listening! What if they tell someone? Oh my gahd, oh shit, they’re gonna tell everyone! We’re fucked! We’re so fucked! Oh no, no no no no!"

The whining tone grated on Nathan’s ears, and he returned to where Pickles was sitting, putting his arms around the little guy, pulling him close. It was a degree of affection neither of them were used to, and it was a little awkward, but it did help. Pickle’s chest heaved as his lungs tightened and burned from stress, and he buried his face into the angle of Nathan’s neck, trying to make himself calm down.

Eventually he managed to speak in a more or less calm tone. "Nate, listen. We gatta find out who it was, we gatta stap him from talkin’. Pay him off or … y’know, make him go away." It was a fair assumption that the eavesdropper was male, less than five percent of their employees were women, but that didn’t really narrow it down any.

"You mean like, kill them?"

Pickles hissed slightly, "Dat’s probably going too far, but… I don’t know dood. Maybe? I hope nat."

Nathan considered, "This is so fucked up. I don’t think I could do that." He’d made the world believe that he was capable of ending anyone’s life at a whim, but he was really just a guy, a human being. Maybe not the smartest or the best possible human being, but he wasn’t psychotic, he realized that he was just mortal flesh and bone, like anyone else, and he felt bad when he inadvertently hurt someone.

"Okay… Okay, we jest gatta think, let me think." Pickles stood up and reached for the crumpled clothes on the floor. "Who would come here in the middle of th’ day?" He tried to wipe some of their mess off with Nathan’s sheets before he tugged his pants up, sans underwear. He didn’t like to put them back on in his condition, it felt so dirty, he could already feel Nathan’s contribution trickle down his thigh and soak into the dark material, but it felt imperative to get out of that room as quickly as possible.

"Housekeeping?" Nathan considered, amongst their employees, not many would dare approach their masters’ havens without a good reason. "Maybe Charles was looking for us."

"Oh gahd. Okay. If it was Charles, we can deal. He won’t fuck us over."

"You sure?"

"Pretty sure. Charlie is a good dood, I ken tell." Pickles clung to that hope, he could talk to Charles, and if it was him, they could work things out.

"What if it wasn’t Charles?" Fuck. Nathan just had to say that.

"I don’t _know_ , alreet? I don’t know what we’re going to do!" Pickles could feel his lungs seizing again, "Fuck… fuck, Nate. This is bad." He wheezed, patting his pockets for his inhaler and not finding it. His friend just watched him in silent concern. Nathan couldn’t quite accept the ramifications of what was happening, he watched Pickles freak out, but Pickles freaked out about lots of things. The little guy was just high strung when he didn’t have something in his blood to slow him down. It couldn’t be that bad, he reasoned. Unless…

Nathan’s voice was unusually soft, "What if it’s someone we don’t know?"

Pickles winced, "There’s a latta people we don’t know workin’ fer us."

"I know. I just mean… nevermind. We’ll go talk to Charles first." Nathan just couldn’t shake the notion that there might be a snake somewhere in his henhouse. Paranoia was getting the better of him; suddenly every hooded figure was suspicious, threatening… frightening. And he hated it.

Nathan got dressed as well, although he had clean clothes to change into, not that Pickles minded how he smelled, but at least it would be less obvious to anyone they ran into than if they _both_ stank of mansex. He crossed the room and opened the window, letting the cool breeze clean out the stale, musky air.

Pickles watched the way Nathan’s hair flowed in the wind, finding himself so unrelentingly attracted. He had caught himself watching on numerous occasions, when he knew it was dangerous, helplessly preoccupied with his lover’s body, the flex of his neck and thrash of his hair as he windmilled during rehearsal. Pickles was so caught up in the sight of Nathan, and he knew he had to stop doing that, he was giving himself away... But Lord help him, he couldn’t stop.

7

Nathan listened distractedly to Skwisgaar talk as the band sat together in the back of the engineering booth. Murderface was busily writing something in a small red notebook, which was unlikely to be useful to anyone but him, and Toki was sitting on the floor, mumbling chord progressions out of a lesson book, finally trying to learn to read music. Pickles sat next to the lead guitarist, completing the usual creative triangle when they got together to write songs.

Skwisgaar suddenly stopped talking, then snapped impatiently, "Nat’an! You ams not listeninks to me!"

Nathan blinked out of his reverie, "Oh uh, sorry Skwisgaar, I was, I … no I wasn’t, what were you saying?"

"Pff! What de fucks ams wrong wit’ you two!?" The Swede’s voice was ascerbic with annoyance.

Pickles glanced at Nathan, saying nothing.

Nathan blinked at the blond guitarist, "What? Nothing!"

"Yes! You songs writing ams been lame shits for weeks! And Pickle playing drums is all sloppies! And now you both ams actings weird all de times!"

Nathan tensed, clenched his fists and tried to look insulted to mask his true reaction. He knew his writing _had_ been suffering lately, but it took this confrontation for him to really understand what was happening. He was simply too _happy_. The satisfaction he got out of his affair with Pickles was making it harder for him to reach down into the blackness and brutality that fueled his craft. Pickles looked at Nathan, and the glance he got back was thick with meaning. He couldn’t tell exactly what the frontman was thinking, not the details, but he knew instantly that the problem was rooted in their relationship.

Breaking the awkward moment, Murderface abruptly looked up from his notebook and announced loudly, "I bet they killed schomeone! Did you kill a guy, Nathan? Did you have to bury hisch body? You can tell usch, it’sch totally cool if you did."

Pickles stared at the bassist, Nathan just sighed, thinking to himself, ‘ _not yet_.’ But all he said was "Goddamnit, nothing’s wrong. I’m not acting weird, okay?!"

Murderface looked at Nathan, then at Pickles, then commented quietly, "You’re acting a _little_ weird."

8

It hadn’t been Charles.

Nathan paced the empty dining room while Pickles sat and watched him. It was early, and they’d locked the doors for privacy. Standing, staring out through the big triangular window, seeing his own face ghosted back at him in the glass, Nathan said quietly, "So what now?"

There was no response, even though he knew Pickles was listening. Nathan pressed on, "Someone was listening to us. They could go to the press, you know they’d eat that shit up. That would fucking ruin everything."

"I know, Nate’n."

"And we will never know who it was until they do _something_. We can’t do anything about it."

Pickles said again, quieter, "I know, Nate’n."

"Skwisgaar was right, I can’t write lately. It sucks, it really sucks, and it’s because of what you and I are doing…" He trailed off. "Pickles, we… I…"

Oh God, Pickles knew that tone. He’d heard it enough times in his life to recognize it instantly, he knew what was going down, and he flinched from it as if he’d been slapped. "Nate’n." It came out a whimper, and Pickles felt disgusted with himself.

Nathan kept his back turned, afraid to see that stricken face. He knew he’d be lost if he did. So he just said it, "I think we need to stop, you know, being together. We have to end this."

Pickles fought to keep his calm. He’d seen this coming, tried so hard to avert it, but it had to happen. It always had, anyone he’d ever been with, it always came down to this. And he knew a dozen good reasons for it, but he asked anyways, voice cracking, "Oh gahd, Nate… Why? Why can’t we just-"

"Don’t be like that." Nathan finally turned around to glare at the drummer, who had gone ashen and wide-eyed. "Don’t be a pussy about it. You know why. We can’t be caught again. If whoever it was tries to say anything, we can just cover it up, it’s just a malicious rumor, it never happened."

"But-"

Nathan was firm, "It _never_ happened, Pickles."

Pickles looked down at his hands, feeling his safety ripped away like tissue. He tried to hide how much it hurt, how the memories of all the times he’d felt this exact pain came flooding in through the hole Nathan had just made… But he’d be strong, he fought it back and nodded quietly. Nathan was right, it was best if they just didn’t let this happen anymore.

Nathan felt sick about this, his guts felt like macrame and broken glass, and the only reason he was able to act calm was because he was riding a wave of adrenaline. Inside he was panicking, his heart threatened to beat right through his ribcage. It was so hard to see his friend suffer, to know that he was the cause of it, but he had to tough it out, he had to be resolute. It was the right thing to do, he told himself, begged himself. Please, let it be the right thing to do.


	4. Part Four: Craving

9

He knew something he shouldn’t know, and it was weighing on him. Did they know that it had been him? Should he tell someone? And if so, who? He had a life at Mordhaus, he had a family, things were going well for him, and he knew the consequences of speaking up could destroy him… perhaps literally. Would they _kill_ him to keep that kind of secret? He didn’t want to believe that, but fear was putting weird ideas into the young man’s head.

Being part of this world was difficult, he’d struggled with the callousness and brutality around him, putting up a jaded front, but never completely fitting into the role. And as he wandered through hallways populated with hooded, nameless non-persons, he felt so completely alone. Who could he turn to? None of these people knew him, just as he knew none of them. Returning to his safe haven at last, the worried man sat and anxiously rubbed at the calluses and scars on his hands.

He wouldn’t decide right away, he thought, he’d wait and see what happened. Maybe it would just blow over, maybe nothing would happen. Nobody needed to know, he would carry the secret, and everything would go back to normal.

10

Charles watched Nathan out of the corner of his eye. Something was wrong there, something had happened between the frontman and his drummer, and it had disrupted the band dynamic. But over the past couple of weeks, it seemed to have been settling out into a dark, oppressive pall. Whatever it was, they were dealing with it poorly, each in their own way. Nathan was eating more, but he was also working out more, taking his frustration out on their gym equipment. Pickles had been relatively sober for a couple of months there, which Charles had liked seeing, but since then, he’d been drinking and getting high in earnest, collapsing back into self-destruction.

It was going to be rough, Charles thought, tapping his pencil against yet another property damage requisition. These things were piling up, he’d have to talk to the boys about that, but right now it was unimportant compared to their personal problems. He was worried that the situation between Nathan and Pickles might eventually tear the band apart. The singer and drummer were the major creative force, even Skwisgaar, who took part in the process, didn’t do nearly as much, didn’t have their imagination and flexibility. And if the two of them couldn’t work together, that would be it: the end of Dethklok.

This was bad, the CFO reflected. He didn’t want to speculate on what had happened, why Nathan and Pickles had been acting the way they had, but Charles wasn’t stupid, and he knew the boys better than they were aware. They’d dropped a lot of hints, the way they’d arrived at his office, slightly flushed and nervous, the way they glanced at each other. The idea was a little surprising, not because of Pickles, he already knew that story, but he didn’t expect it of Nathan. On the other hand, Nathan had always been passive, eager to please despite his outward appearance of dominating savageness. If Pickles had really wanted it, Charles could see him leading the burly singer into his bed.

He wasn’t bothered by the idea that the two boys might have been screwing around, but obviously the relationship had soured, and that was an issue that had to be addressed. Usually he’d send the band to Twinkletits when they had personal issues, but this is something Charles couldn’t trust that pastel-wearing psychopath with. He’d have to handle it himself.

11

 

Weeks passed. The immediate pain had dulled, but not the wanting, the feeling of loss.

Pickles had sunk deep into depression, sleeping for most of the day, and then drinking himself back unconscious for the rest. The only time he showed any enthusiasm was when he got behind his kit. His drumming had become fevered and raw, truly brutal, and he’d play until his muscles burned and cramped. Skwisgaar approved of this, it made the music better, but Nathan, despite himself, noticed the pain. The agony throbbing in every beat, pounding into him like small fists.

The frontman was also writing again, frustratingly finding every song too emotional, filled with despair and longing. He’d had to revise them, make them more generic, angrier, but they were _good_. Really, really good. And when he sang, he felt a connection to the lyrics he’d never known before, roaring with more force, more intensity than he had in years.

When they got into recording, which went phenomenally, even Toki and Murderface put their best effort in, finding themselves affected by the sheer power in the new songs. Knubbler threw a huge party to congratulate them on having produced something above and beyond, and it seemed that some good was coming out of the mess they’d made, after all.

Yet at the same time, the two men, who had once been lovers, could barely stand to look at each other. The tension between them had grown palpable, even to the other band members, who had no idea how to interpret it. But they had all become edgy and irritable over it, each of them was surreptitiously watching the other four, nerves drawn tight. They knew that eventually someone would break down, something had to give, and when it did, it would be messy.

12

Nathan and Pickles stood in the CFO’s office, trying to look as casual as possible. Charles watched them for a few moments, and then Nathan dropped his bulk into the leather recliner opposite Charles’ desk.

"We’re here." Nathan said, "Why are we here?" Pickles was quiet, he already knew.

"Nathan, Pickles. Part of my job is to make sure you boys are safe and healthy, and right now, you are both in a dangerous place. And I think it’s in everyone’s best interest if we were to sort that out."

Pickles glanced up at Charles. No older than he, but the clean-cut, bespectacled man had such presence, such natural authority, it made the drummer feel like a scolded child standing there. "I don’t know…"

"I don’t think it’s any of your business." Nathan’s eyebrows knitted irritably.

"Well it is. Like it or not, I care about you, and that’s not just my job. But since it IS my job, we’re going to sit here and talk about it, alright?" Charles knew he was being harsh, pushing them, but his boys were just that: boys. They needed firm guidance, they needed someone strong to fall back on, who would make them do the difficult, necessary things.

Pickles nodded in agreement, and though Nathan didn’t say anything, his expression changed just enough to register as consent.

Charles pressed ahead, cutting to the chase with his usual surgical precision. "Are you two having sex?"

Nathan flushed, not expecting it to come out so immediately, but Pickles was already resigned to this conversation. He admitted quietly, hoping Nathan wouldn’t have a fit, "We were."

So they had stopped, but it was obviously not over. That explained a lot. "What happened?"

The singer didn’t want to talk about it, so Pickles answered, "We heard someone… someone was listening to us, you know. Doin’ it."

"And you don’t know who it was." Of course, that was why they’d approached him before.

"No!" Nathan grunted, "Someone has us by the fuckin’ balls, Ofdensen."

"Ya gatta help us. I don’t know what to do." Pickles’ eyes darted between his bandmate and his manager nervously.

Charles sighed and removed his glasses, kneading the bridge of his nose. This was just great. "I can try, but honestly, I don’t know if I there’s anything I can do. It could have been anyone."

Two voices in unison, "I know!" Nathan grumbled and wedged himself deeper into the chair, "God, this sucks."

There were multiple paths they could take at this point, and Charles decided to ask an obvious question. "Do you love each other?"

A pause, there. The drummer and vocalist looked at each other, then Nathan said, "No. … Maybe. I don’t know."

Pickles cringed slightly, "Yeah… I don’t, well, maybe." It stung, not knowing, unsure of his own feelings.

Charles considered this. "I think you should figure it out, as soon as possible, because right now, you’re hurting yourselves. And you’re starting to hurt the band."

"What? No way dood, the music has been fuckin’ ahsome!" Pickles’ tone was defensive. The music was the only reason he came out of his room anymore.

Nathan glanced sidelong at the drummer. The music really had been awesome, but he was questioning whether or not it was worth it. "It is pretty hardcore, yeah."

"That may well be," Charles’ tone was insistent, "But you’re making everyone around you uncomfortable. It’s not fair to them, and honestly, it’s not fair to yourselves. Please, just… try to sort it out. And if you need someone to talk to, I’ll be here."

The two musicians couldn’t get out of that office fast enough. They knew Charles was right. They had to resolve this. But there was a complication: every time they were alone together it ended the same way, the conversation would be completely derailed by their mutual discomfort, the electricity arcing between them, making it impossible to work anything out. So they avoided each other, and nothing changed.

13

The problem wasn’t going to blow over, he realized, pacing silently in his room. The secret had to come out. He could see how wound up everyone was, and he knew it was because of what he’d heard. They’d feel better if he just told them, if they understood that he would never have betrayed them. He loved them, wanted only to please them, everything he did was built on good intentions. He had to face the possible backlash, that they might be angry, especially since he had waited so long. He would approach the drummer, it would probably be safer, he concluded.

Pickles was half-asleep, too drunk to be awake and too miserable to dream, when a tentative fist knocked on his door. God, whoever it was, go the hell away. He couldn’t deal with this. There was a pause, but they didn’t go away. The knocking came again, more firmly this time, and Pickles moaned at it.

"Okay, god, fuck, hold on awreet?!" The groggy redhead pushed himself out of bed and tottered to the door, not caring that he was naked but for his Y-fronts and wristbands. He pawed hazily at the door panel and looked up at the familiar, worried face that appeared. "Oh… Hey. What’s going on?"

"Hi, Pickle, can I come talks to you?" Toki hunched slightly, his stomach knotting.

"Ugh, yeh, sure, I guess." Pickles moved aside. His room was a mess, and smelled bad, like alcoholic sweat and stale laundry. He hadn’t let the housekeeping staff clean it up in weeks. But Toki didn’t show any reaction as he stepped inside and palmed the door closed.

He stood quietly, looking at Pickles until the other man grew impatient.

"What, Toki? You can talk ta me, it’s okey."

The Norwegian rubbed his hands and nodded, still grasping for the right words. It was better just to come out with it. "Pickle… I heards you and Nat’an, in his rooms. I know yous was fucksing him. And I never tells anyone, I swear."

The relief was so overwhelming, Pickles actually staggered, unable to speak. Suddenly considerably sobered, he stared at the guitarist, one hand pressed to his collarbone. Toki waited, and then spoke again.

"You… and Nat’an, and everyones, ams so good to me. You tooks me in and giveds me a whole life. You ams my families now, and I never ever wants to hurt you. I was scareds, maybe… if I says I heards you, you gets angry and t’rows me outs of te band." Toki paused, voice catching slightly, "Please don’ts be angry, Pickle! I don’ts care what you do, you ams still my friends!"

Maybe it was gratitude, or the need for comfort, but suddenly Pickles was hugging the young man, which Toki didn’t really mind. It was weird, but kind of nice. They both felt the weight of anxiety lifting, and Toki hugged Pickles in return.

"Oh thank GAHD, Toki. Ya fuckin’… ya just, you put us t’rough hell, y’know? But damn…" Pickles let go and stepped back, suddenly feeling awkward and uncomfortable. "I get it, why ya didn’t tell me sooner. And Nate… he’ll probably be kind of pissed, but he cares about ya, he won’t stay mad fer long."

"Do I haves to tell him myself?"

"No… no, yah’d better steay clear. I’ll tell’im." Pickles’ head reeled slightly as he looked for something clean-ish to wear, kicking aside empty cans with a frown, as if he had just noticed what a mess he’d been living in. He was still drunk, but this revelation had cut through the fog like a scalpel.

Toki smiled, "Thanks you, Pickle. You ams a good pal."

"You too, dood."


	5. Part Five: Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Redheads are feisty, don'cha know?

 

14

 

"Seriously? That little jackoff! What the fuck?!"

"He was scared, Nate’n." Pickles stood, arms folded nervously, while Nathan sat on his bed, hands in his lap. They were both tense, not wanting to be there, alone in each other’s company. Resisting the urge to look at the other, to feel the pull of their mutual attraction. It was just too difficult.

"I know, but… fuck, Pickles, too many people know."

"Only two."

"That’s too many!" Nathan was nearly yelling. He was angry, but not really at Toki. He was just angry in general. He picked up a pillow and threw it, but it wasn’t very satisfying. He looked for something more breakable.

"Yeah, okey, but dood, it was Toki. He won’t tell anyone, he’s gat too much ta lose."

"We were lucky. Shit, is he okay? What was he even _doing_ there!?"

"Yeah… didn’t even ask. Sahm crazy thing. But we ken trust him, we’re nat in trouble, and jest…" Pickles looked at his shoes briefly, "I jest mean, maybe we could think about, ya know…"

"What, Pickles? Do you want to fuck me so badly you’d risk everything? You’d risk the band? What happens when it’s not Toki? No, we can’t, okay?!" Nathan’s throat was tight by the time he got that out. Pickles looked so hurt, it made his stomach ache.

"We’re nat okey. I’m nat okey, fuck… I can’t handle this, Nate, I can’t be like you."

Nathan glared, "Tough shit. Either you deal with it or you go live in your dirty bedroom for the rest of your life. We’re not supposed to be happy, we’re not good people, Pickles. It’s not Brutal."

"Yeah… Okey Nate’n." Still staring at his shoes. God, he was such a pussy, on the edge of breaking down right there, 'like some kind of fucking faggot', a cruel voice in his mind taunted, 'like a little boy, like you always do'… He couldn't control his emotions, something in him creaked and gave way. "I just… I don’t understand why. I miss you, Nate. I miss touchin’ ya so much, and ya jest say ‘no’ and it’s over! It’s jest over, like thet, and I can’t touch ya… And why do _you_ get to decide?! Why can’t I have sahmthing good fer once!? It’s not fucking _fair_!" The drummer’s face went red with the sudden realization of anger. He was hurt and confused, and as he stood there, feeling the rage rise in him, like fire up his spine, he knew he wasn’t in control anymore. Pickles’ hands curled into fists, and he lunged at Nathan with a feral shriek.

Reeling back as Pickles grabbed and beat at him, Nathan yelped and put his hands up to stop the suddenly furious, violent assault, nearly falling backwards. "Pickles! Stop it! Ow, shit! Stop it!"

"Fuck you, Nate’n! Fuck you fer this! Fer makin’ me fucking love you!" He knew he would probably regret saying it, that his small hands would barely bruise the burly singer, but he couldn’t stop himself, he pounded his fists against Nathan’s chest and shoulders, tears rolling down his face, "Fuck you fer leavin’ me alone!" He felt the large arms that had been his security close around him, holding him immobile and stopping the attack, and he writhed uselessly against them, making small, hoarse, defeated sounds.

"Calm the fuck down, Pickles. Do you think I’m happy about this?" Nathan growled, gripping the drummer tightly, hearing the tense wheeze in his breath. "You don’t even know, you’re so self-centered. I hate it. I hate myself for this." He had only just registered what the man in his arms had said. ‘Love’. The word they were never supposed to say. It cut deep, but he couldn’t bring himself to respond to it. Not yet. He felt Pickles stop struggling and go limp, sagging tiredly against him.

"Why can’t we jest go beack to how it was?"

"Because. It’s too risky, it’s too gay, and it’s ruining the band. I can’t write and you can’t play, and it’s fucked up. I miss you too, I missed this, holding you." Nathan was suddenly acutely aware of the smaller man’s body against his, the scent of him, the texture of his skin and hair. He took a deep breath. "Do you really love me?"

Pickles tensed for a moment, and then gave in. "Yeah, I do. It’s not like all flowers and hearts, like I wanna marry ya and raise a buncha hellspawn, but yeah, it’s sahmthing like that."

"That’s really gay, you know." He paused, clearing his throat and looking down into the face of the man who had been his best friend for so long, "But… Yeah, it’s something like that." He leant down and kissed Pickles’ forehead, feeling the shudder of pleasure it brought out.

A whimper, "Don’t do that, Nate, don’t tease me."

Nathan sighed and let Pickles go, feeling the warmth of his bandmate’s body slip away from him with a heartfelt ache. He put his face in his hands, breathing deeply. Pickles sat down next to him and waited silently.

What was the point? Really, why were they so afraid of this? Nathan felt the fear, but he couldn’t really understand why it was there. It had felt so wonderful before, and maybe there were risks, but wasn’t that part of being a rock star? Taking risks, being caught, living through the consequences and triumphing over them? How many musicians had been outed for sleeping with their bandmates in the past? The ones who knew how to handle it had wound up even more famous, more respected. Nathan doubted he could be that cool, but goddamnit, it really didn’t matter. The intelligent, talented, horribly screwed-up yet amazing human being sitting next to him, he mattered.

"You know what? It was stupid. It doesn’t matter. If someone ever tries to screw with us about it, it'll be our word against theirs, and there’s lots of chicks out there who know for a fact we like women." Nathan looked at his friend, and he could see a darkened disappointment mixed with uncertainty and want.   Pickles hated the hiding, the shame they were being made to bear.

Nathan pulled his friend close again, this time there was no resistance. He found his drummer’s lips eager to meet his, the familiar taste of his mouth, the scratchy texture of his facial hair, the soft huffing of Pickles’ breath on his cheek. This was what mattered, not the opinions of strangers, not the tenuous image of a celebrity.

Pickles curled his fingers against Nathan’s arm, leaning into the kiss as if it was his first, or his last. When it broke, he was dizzy. "I’m sarry, Nate’n. I’m sarry I hit you."

"Doesn’t matter, you had to, I needed it... It’s in the past now."

Pickles pressed his cheek against that warm, broad chest. After a moment, he had an unhappy thought. "What about th’ music? If ya can’t write because of me?"

"I don’t care." A simple answer, direct.

Pickles was quiet, happy to be held again, after so long. Happy to know that he was so wanted, even after what had happened, even after he’d lost his shit and screamed and cried and tried to hurt Nathan, he was wanted. If this screwed up his playing, he realized, he didn’t care either.

16

He awoke wrapped up in Nathan’s arms, both of them still fully clothed except for their feet. They had slept like that, too exhausted to do anything else, and even though his shoulders were a bit stiff, finding himself there in the morning was so wonderful. Pickles didn’t want to get up. It was too nice just laying there, but he felt his bladder complaining, the sensation that had woken him up in the first place, and he crawled reluctantly away from the warm comfort of Nathan’s body.

It wasn’t until he stood up that he even noticed that his head hurt, his stomach was churning, his mouth was dry, and he was sober. He swore when it hit him, and he reeled slightly with nausea. Bathroom, now.

Nathan awoke to the sound of Pickles throwing up. He hadn’t heard it in a long time, because they’d been apart, and before that, because Pickles had been drinking less. It startled him, but it wasn’t a new thing. Last night had been hard on the little guy, Nathan reflected. But puking was healthy, he supposed, it meant the bad stuff was coming out. He got up after it had been quiet for a while, and knocked on the bathroom door.

"Ugh… Just a minute." Pickles sounded nonplussed, but he was coherent, so he was probably alright.

"I’m going to go get some breakfast, I don’t suppose you want to eat."

"Urrghbghl…" That was a no. Nathan deliberated. It was probably safe enough to leave Pickles alone, he was a grown man, and had dealt with hangovers since before Nathan had tasted his first beer. But something stopped the singer from leaving. He decided to wait.

Pickles finally made an appearance after about fifteen minutes, face wet and flushed, but looking better than he’d sounded. And he was genuinely surprised to see Nathan sitting there, concerned.

"I theat you were gonna get food."

"I didn’t want to go until you, uh, got done."

"Fuck, Nate’n, that’s…" He didn’t want to say ‘sweet’, or ‘gay’, or anything that might be embarrassing. "Ya didn’t have to."

Nathan shrugged. He’d wanted to. That was enough of an incentive. "Do you feel better?"

"Yeah. Not like I could eat, but I ken come to th’ kitchen wit’ ya if yer hangry… If you want." Maybe it was a bad idea, they never ate breakfast together, not unless the entire band were sharing a meal. But Nathan had asked. Something had changed last night, the rules they’d made when this all started no longer seemed to apply. Pickles looked at the other man, who could feel the concentration behind those large jade eyes.

"Hey, Nate’n?"

"Yeah?"

"What are we doing? I mean, what is this now? Are we… together?"

Nathan thought about it. He had felt such tenderness towards the other man, an odd sense of empathy listening to him be sick through the bathroom door. He was almost able to think about his feelings without going all queasy and angry. It was still hard, but something had given, some wall inside him that he hardly even knew had been there. He looked at Pickles, "I guess so. Kind of. Does it have to be one or the other? I mean, I’m not, well, you know, what about the girls?"

The meaning was a bit blurry, but Pickles picked it up. Nathan wanted to know if he was still okay with having an open relationship, if he could handle not being the only person in Nathan’s bed. The drummer didn’t love the idea, but he knew Nathan would want it, and that it was better for them, professionally, if the groupies kept up talk of their manly prowess. He shrugged nonchalantly, "If you want."

Nathan did want it, he felt more secure with himself if he knew he could still be with women. But the more he thought about it, about the conquest of random groupies, all skanky and shallow and ultimately empty, the less appealing it became. He just wanted the freedom, to know that he _could_ if he chose to.

"Y’know, I was thinkin’ least night, after ya fell asleep." Pickles wiped water from his beard and sat down next to the big guy. "About music, about how you have to feel to write. And… I want to try sahmthing. I think… I have an idea."

"What?"

"Trust me. Meet me in the sound booth tonight, make it seven."


	6. Part Six: Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last installment of this story, finally :D

18

The change was immediately noticeable, the sudden absence of tension between the bandmates. Toki noticed it most, and it made him feel good to know his friends were okay again, and that he wasn’t in trouble. Skwisgaar was happy that Nathan was no longer distracted and ignoring him, and relieved that whatever it was, it had apparently worked itself out.

They sat together in the common room, watching television, while Pickles sat off to the side with his laptop, and Murderface played video games. It felt _normal_ again, they were all just hanging out like they always had. And when Charles came in to check on them, he smiled inwardly, careful not to show anything the boys might pick up on.

"Are you going to finish recording those three tracks, guys?" As usual, the answer was a collection of lazy, noncommittal noises and grumbling. Recording was work, and the boys did everything in their power to avoid it.

"We’ll werk on it tanight, Charlie." Pickles tried not to grin, "After _CSI Miami_." Nothing like a solid hour of sickeningly detailed, bloody special effects to keep the guys distracted.

"Ja, I likes when t’ey shows ta bullet goings in ta brains."

"Dat ams so disgustinks, Toki." The Swede wouldn’t admit he’d gotten caught up in the interpersonal, soapy parts of the show. It wasn’t Metal, and it wasn’t related to guitars.

Nathan just grunted, he liked the show, he liked any show with murders in it, but he knew he wouldn’t be around to watch. His mind was preoccupied with what Pickles had planned. He didn’t know what to expect, and even though he trusted his friend, he couldn’t get all the possibilities out of his head.

Murderface looked up from his game, "I want a pair of sunglassches like that detective guy. He looksch so cool when he takesch them off. Like, schomeone gets their eyesch stabbed out he schays, ‘I guessch you could call thisch… blind juschtisch.’ … And then _guitar riff!_ Fuckin’ Aweschome."

Charles nodded, "But you’ll go work on the tracks after that, right?"

"Yeah, yeah. We’ll get sahm shit done fer ya."

"Good, that’s all I wanted to know." Their manager left them to their wastes of time.

Skwisgaar waited for Ofdensen to leave before he made an exasperated sound, "Pff, why he always gots to be about de work? We makes songs when we wants to, he still ams gettinks paids."

"He’sch a robot. He can’t help it."

"Ja, he haves a robot heart dat is mades out of metal. And dat… and it ams like, dat is pretty damns Metal!"

"Ja, it ams Metal, yous funny today, Skwisgaar."

"I ams always funny, Toki. You justs not listeninks."

Pickles smiled. The guys were getting along better than usual, and he knew it was because he and Nathan weren’t making everyone uptight anymore. "So, okey, we gat six tracks done, an’ three more in th’ werks, looks like we gat just under fourty minutes on it so far, so… what do ya think? Three more? Make it an even dozen?"

"God, Picklesch, are you catching robot from Ofdenschen or schomething? Don’t talk to usch about the fucking album, jeeze!"

"Hey, I just wanna get this done, awreet? I’m a musician, Murderface, I like making music."

Grumble. "Okay fine, you get it fucking done, Picklesch."

The drummer just grinned, and Murderface couldn’t stay angry. He just rolled his eyes and started up a new game.

Nathan cleared his throat. "I’m going to go make a sandwich." It was a quarter past six. Pickles didn’t look up as the frontman got up to leave.

"Hey, makes me a sandwich toos!"

"Make your own damn sandwich, Toki."

"But yous gonna be ins ta kitchens, why can’ts yous makes me a sandwich?"

Nathan stood in the doorway and sighed, "Fine, I’ll make you a fucking sandwich, but I’m not bringing it to you."

"Is okay, I comes down and gets it later. T’anks you, Nat’an!" The Norweigan got so enthusiastic about the weirdest things. Of course, this meant Nathan had to actually make sandwiches. But he had time, so he might as well eat something.

19

It went by quickly. Spreading margarine over thick white bread, layering chicken and cheese and tomatoes. Eating the finished product. It was suddenly looming close to seven. Nathan left the second sandwich in the fridge for Toki and hurried to the studio building. He wasn’t aware of how he looked as he stalked the long halls of Mordhaus. Face intent, shoulders slightly hunched. He relaxed as he descended into the quiet, empty recording facility. The other guys were watching TV, and the staff didn’t come down here unless they were told to, so it was eerily deserted.

Pickles was waiting for him, laying on the sofa at the back of the engineering booth. He looked more relaxed than Nathan had seen him in a long time, and when he looked up, their eyes locking, it sent a chill up the vocalist’s back. "I’m glad yer here."

"Yeah. You said you had an idea."

"To help ya, to help both of us rilly." Pickles stood up and approached the other man, grinning deviously, putting his hands on Nathan’s chest and gently pushing the big guy back until he was leaning against the edge of the engineering console. Pickles leaned up close, belly to belly, and Nathan felt himself both unsure and excited about the aggressive approach.

"I’ve been thinking about it, tell me what – Ah!" The drummer’s strong fingers were kneading his crotch, snaring in his thick black hair as Pickles leant in to kiss and nibble his throat. Fuck, that felt so good! "Oh…"

As soon as Nathan was hard, Pickles slid down onto his knees, dragging his hands down the inside of Nathan’s jeans-clad thighs, and then up to his waist to undo his fly. It didn’t matter if the singer couldn’t think of any way this could possibly help his writing problem, but oh God, did he ever want that talented, heavenly mouth on his cock.

And then it was there, the electric caress of that sweet tongue, teeth gently nipping at his foreskin, the warm breath, soft lips and rough hair brushing over the sensitive flesh. The drummer’s agile fingers kneading into his thighs, wrapping around that impressive male organ. And then hot and wet enveloped him, making him groan in pleasure.

It had been far too long since he’d felt good, and the anxious weeks spent alone melted away in Pickles’ mouth, slid into nothingness as the drummer bobbed and sucked, gently rubbing Nathan’s balls and the base of his cock. The dark-haired singer rolled his head back, gripping the edge of the console and moaning. All too quickly, he could feel the heat building in his gut, the tight coiling sensation getting ready to…

And then it stopped. Pickles drew back and stood up, wiping the spit from his mouth, backing out of range before the big guy could grab him. He tried to look nonchalant, despite the obvious hard-on tenting his own pants. "That’s all ya get."

Nathan choked, panting. "What the fuck?! Why!?"

"That’s all ya get, until ya write me a song."

"Pickles… Fuck, seriously?" Nathan’s head spun. He stood there awkwardly, confused and horny and growing increasingly frustrated.

"Yeah, seriously. You can’t have me until ya write sahmthin’ decent. From now ahn, if we have werk ta do, no screwing around until after we get it done. And it has ta be good."

Nathan ground his teeth. This was a dirty trick. "And after?"

Pickles was already leaving. "I’ll be waiting for you."

 

20

Nathan sat, staring at his composition notebook for almost an hour. He was horny, and pissed off, and his fingers twitched impatiently on the pen. He couldn’t really think about anything but how much he wanted to go find Pickles and fuck the hell out of him. But he didn’t want to be defeated by this.

"Goddamnit, what does he expect me to do!?"

He was considering jerking off when Skwisgaar and Murderface showed up in the recording room. Shit. Ok, act normal.

The two musicians greeted Nathan, they were there to record Murderface’s tracks. Skwisgaar leant over and glanced at Nathan’s notepad, noting the blank page.

"You still ams havingks trouble writingks, huh?"

Nathan glanced up, "Yeah. It’s just not coming. Uh. I mean. Yeah."

"Schucksh to be you." Murderface stepped into the studio and played some test chords, making tuning adjustments where necessary.

"Ja wells, we goingks to, uh, have make records de bass tracks nows, so… maybe it helps."

The Swede busied himself with the recording console while the bassist got himself psyched up on the other side of the glass. Skwisgaar turned the booth speakers on so he could hear the other musician without having to put on headphones, and the rich notes of the instrument filled the room. Murderface was playing well, he actually liked the angsty songs Nathan had been writing, he identified with them, and it brought out the best in him.

Nathan ignored it at first, but after listening to the deep bass rhythm for a while, something fell into place in his brain. He found himself writing down a garbled train of thought, scrawling all his frustration onto paper, and it worked. The song came out easily after that, full of violence and lust, a warrior’s song, a battle cry. It was a marked contrast to the depressing theme of the earlier songs, but no less heavy. He’d make sure to have Knubbler switch them up on the album, it would keep their fans on edge. Writing had made him feel electrified, and when he was done, he knew exactly what he wanted to do.

Nathan ran his tongue over his teeth, eyes flicking over to where his two bandmates were working, both of them deep into their own thing. He got up and left the recording room quietly, without being noticed.

 

21

When he found Pickles, watching television in his newly-cleaned room, he simply pushed the small man back onto the bed, without saying a word, and started pulling the drummer’s clothes off. Within moments they were both naked, and Nathan’s mouth and hands were all over the other man’s body.

"Oh gahd, Nate!" Was all that was said, before Pickles felt Nathan pull away for a moment, heard a brief rustling… and then suddenly lube-slicked fingers were pressing between the halves of his ass, rubbing around the ring of muscle there. He moaned and relaxed, letting Nathan work on him. His hand moved to stroke his own cock, but Nathan pushed it away, replacing it with his own. The singer wanted to be in charge, and that was okay.

He was really starting to enjoy himself when he felt big, strong hands grip and lift his hips, and the gut-clenching nudge of Nathan’s erection as he was repositioned. Pickles arched as Nathan pushed in, at the familiar painful throb around the big man’s girth. But Nathan had no intention of being gentle tonight; he dug his nails into Pickles’ slender white hips and growled like a wild animal, pulling him up until the drummer’s toned thighs were shivering against his ribs, holding him steady as the snarling beast took what was his.

Pickles groaned and rocked back into the pillows, on the receiving end of the most brutal, incredible, animalistic fuck ever. Nathan was taking his revenge, plowing into Pickles’ ass savagely, teeth bared and eyes wide, his straight jet hair swaying tangled and damp around his face, lashing across the slim, pale chest heaving beneath him. The smaller man’s ankles pressed against his hips as they pistoned, sweat rolling down and dripping onto the drummer’s skin.

"Hnnggh! Look at me!"

Forcing his eyes open, Pickles looked up, and found himself falling into the deep emerald jungle of Nathan’s gaze. It was consuming him, swallowing him whole, and he surrendered to it, a willing sacrifice to his beautiful, bloodthirsty human God. His whole being vibrated, thrumming to the pitch of Nathan’s rumbling voice, it was as if they were singing together, composing the most awesome music in the universe. A shudder passed through them both, and the drummer was lost in the beat.

Nathan’s body was burning with exertion, his head was a riot of lust, and a red wash was clouding his vision. This was so real, so base and carnal, it was hard to keep any self-control, to keep himself from trying to tear the smaller body in his hands apart. Pickles looked so breakable, even though Nathan knew he was tougher than that, but the perception of frailness was there. It made him feel even bigger, stronger, and more dangerous as he thrust into the wiry redhead.

Pickles was unable to do anything but clutch at the mattress and moan in pain and unbelievable pleasure, his dredlocks snaking across the pillows as he arched and tossed his head. He’d never been taken quite like this, and it was so intense, Nathan’s cock felt so perfect, stroking all the right places so hard it hurt, but the pain was delicious… "Annhh! Nnnnate’n fuuuck!" He mewled and arched, "Fuck, fuck!" Clenching, writhing, Nathan pounding into him, slamming his prostate until his vision blurred into a wash of stars, his voice rising into a clear, undulating wail, and he was coming, he was…

_Perfect music_.

The hot grip of Pickles’ spasming body sent Nathan over the edge seconds later, his nails raising red welts on delicate Irish skin, thrusting roughly and then tensing, grinding his hips against that tight little ass, "Nnggh, fuck!" The rush of the body drug filled him, and he let it have him, giving in completely to the pleasure of it as he released into his lover… Oh sweet wondrous Hell on Earth, it was so very, very good.

They lay panting, tangled in each other for a long while. Unwilling to move, to speak, to somehow mar the perfect afterglow. But eventually it faded, and they were cold and sticky and aching in various places, so they rolled away from each other and curled into more comfortable positions on the large bed – not as big as Nathan’s, but it was enough.

Drifting sleepily, Pickles asked, "So… Are ya okay wit’ this? Does it work fer ya?"

"Yeah. I mean, it really does."

A yawn, "Good."

"Pickles?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time, bring the belts."

-Fin-


End file.
